The door shut behind her louder than the crack of the arrow.
Marcella stood in the corridor outside Berith's study. Her hands trembled at her sides—fingers still remembering the burn of the heat that radiated from his skin, the way his arms had wrapped around her just seconds before to protect her.
And still, he lied.
Marcella walked on instinct, rushing down the grand hall, the hem of her lavender robe fluttering behind her. She didn't look back. Not at the door she had slammed.
Marcella strode across her room to her wardrobe. She tore off the night robe, her hands almost desperate as they slid into the folds of a dark green gown. She belted it at the waist, breathing hard.
"Milady?" Lira's voice came from the doorway, soft and worried.
"I need the carriage," Marcella said, not looking at her. "Now."
Lira paused, fidgeting with the end of her apron. "But… but you've only just woken.."
Marcella turned. "I need to see Sister Evelyne immediately."
"But His Grace..."
